


Haunted

by NicoleTheHardyLover



Category: James Delaney - Fandom, Taboo (TV 2017)
Genre: Africa, F/M, Incest, Multi, Prostitution, Slavery, Taboo, Voodoo, james keziah delaney - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-03
Updated: 2018-05-03
Packaged: 2019-05-01 15:11:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14523354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NicoleTheHardyLover/pseuds/NicoleTheHardyLover
Summary: >It's what you do, it's what you see, I know if I'm haunting you, you must be haunting me<James Keziah Delaney wears his past like a noose around his neck. Starting in Africa, his unfinished business in London leads him back home to conquer it.To all that knew him before, they say he looks the same.But he is not.>My wicked tongue, Where will it be? I know if I'm haunting you, you must be haunting me<





	1. Foreword.

The rain fell as though a thousand clouds had erupted, dousing the drab earth beneath his booted feet with puddles half disguised by the mud.  
James welcomed the biting wind and harsh pelts of the raindrops on his cheeks because it had been ten long years since he felt anything remotely close to the downpour of a London rainstorm and he relished every second of feeling the wetness seep onto his leathered skin. 

In the remote jungles of Africa, where he had resided for the best part of a decade, the rain was as hot as the sand and as scarce as the nightfall. He had longed for the kind of weather that made the trees bloom thick with emerald leaves and the rivers cascade with the kind of unruly intent they were meant for. The kind that weathered the rocks beneath and could drag a man downwind before he had the chance to grab onto the reeded banks and save himself. 

Water he knew well, had the ability to drown a man, and yet, though he had seen so little of it for so long, he had been drowning all the same. 

When the muddy earth fully concealed his buried secrets, he stood, looking once more at the great oak he had chosen as his landmark for the hidden diamonds and returned to his tethered mare seeking shelter beneath the canopy of its thick branches. Tying his spade at the saddle, he mounted with ease and kicked his heels with enough force to the horse's flanks to see it off to a good pace.  
The ground was slimy and soft beneath them slowing its canter and the rain continued with a vengeance not unlike his own but in the far distance it was easy to see the lights of London Town like a beacon, the place he reluctantly headed for. It was the place that held all of his most darkest and wretched secrets, the place he had once called home. 

James keziah Delaney was indeed home at last and only one thing claimed his every waking thought: revenge on all that had wronged him - because the ghosts of his past had haunted him for far too long and like the rainfall, the vengeance was painfully overdue.


	2. Chapter 2

Zilpha Annabelle Geary held her covered head high as she traveled by ebony horse to her father's funeral. The bell ringer loudly declared the details of the forthcoming service as he walked ahead, and trailing behind her were unsavoury faces who were no doubt nosy for the pitiful details of Horace Delaney's legacy, or at the very least an excuse to drink ale on his behalf at the wake. They were certainly not caring companions because in the latter years of his life he had none, only perhaps his faithful servant Brace who had begrudgingly shifted into more of a care giver for a man with a disturbed mind. 

Taking her seat at the pew, her husband Thorne fidgeted anxiously beside her, his freckled hands dragging a path through his copper coloured hair at the same time giving way to his uneasiness.   
She sighed, wishing more than ever that this day would swiftly pass, with the following Wednesday bringing the arrival of the reason she bothered to be here at all: the reading of the will.   
Her very presence today was linked to her father's fortune. At the age of sixty-two he had but knowingly fathered three children. His first born was a chip off the old block, a stark raving mad hatter that had thankfully taken himself off to Africa ten years previously and rumour had it, although she had never had it confirmed in writing, was that her older brother James had died on a sunken slave ship bound for Antigua.   
She had been relieved, freed from the threat of seeing his face ever again. Her half brother was the bane of her very existence, he haunted her very being, both consciously and in her dreams. But he was gone, and so was the secret they shared, even if the harrowing memories of it weren't.  
Her other sibling was a bastard child, given the name Robert. That was if she cared to remember, but of course the truth was she didn't. Her father hadn't, whilst he was still alive and of a sane disposition and so the boy was cast out to fend for himself.   
Zilpha knew James would have scalded them for it, and if she was honest it was the very reason she never cared enough to take him on. James hadn't cared enough to stick around when the boy arrived ten years ago, and so no one would care going forth. The boy just didn't exist any longer, much like James himself.

The fact that her siblings were gone as it were, meant that Zilpha expected to inherit all of her father's fortune and property one week today. Whilst her husband earned enough coin to keep them living lavishly as it was, he was of the opinion that one could never have enough capital and with more fortune they would acquire more social standing, which was something he cared all too deeply about.  
She usually went along with whatever Thorne suggested, hankering after an easy existence and a decadent lifestyle and so the business of her legacy was no exception. The more money Thorne had the more time he spent wasting it away from the home, which pleased her greatly.   
As she sat at the pew, surrounded by mumbled chatter, she remembered her father before his mind had turned so drastically insane, he had never been bewitched by money in the same way as her spouse, even though he was not ever short, but rather his weakness had been women. -Like father like son- she mused as she bit her lip on a memory, suddenly being brought back to her senses with a whisper in her ear from the pew behind. 

"Mrs Geary, excuse my interruption, but the grave diggers were asking if you wish to divulge any more shillings for the burial of your father, they say two will make him a likely breakfast for the birds come the morning." Mr Thoyt said, under his breath. 

She rolled her eyes in silent protest. Her father's lawyer was suggesting she shell out more money so that Horace could be buried deeper beneath the soil, hence avoiding grave diggers, but before she got the chance to answer him, her husband stepped in for her, as was usually and annoyingly the case. 

"My wife, wishes for no such thing. The two shillings she contributed were more than generous considering the amount of shame he has brought on her name these past years. He's lucky he is permitted a burial at all" Thorne finished, with a snarl escaping his gritted teeth. 

"Gentleman please" Zilpha interrupted, "I ask you to give consideration on my grief today, and refrain from the bick- " Zilpha stopped mid sentence as the heavy oak door at the back of the chapel opened with a creak before shutting with a heavy slam as the few heads in attendance turned to see who the inconsiderate latecomer was.  
When she laid eyes on the figure that had entered, the breath was stolen from her very lungs, her heartbeat instantly thudding a beat inside her ears, her mind loudly screaming a thousand curses even though she stayed silent as she whipped her head back around to face the minister. Her eyes began practically bulging from their sockets and her throat began constricting of its own accord, threatening to choke her. The man of the cloth had just begun the service, not put off by any latecomers, not affected at all, as the shadow that had entered began to trudge past them down the aisle. She might've believed he was an apparition, a vision from her worse type of nightmare, but for the proof in the next words spoken.

"Is that your brother?" Thoyt mumbled, with as much surprise as one could muster, making her husband turn to look again at the man walking past them with more intrigue. He had heard the stories, much the same as everyone. Her brother was somewhat of a dark and mysterious legend among those that knew of the Delaney family. 

"In walks a dead man" the old lawyer said, louder still.  
She kept her stare fixed on the crucifix dangling from the neck of the minister as she answered, her own voice sounding like it came from deep beneath water. Her body wishing it was. She was already drowning.   
Her head shook in involuntary disbelief. Her mouth dropping open enough for her to reply.

"It is hell opened up".

******

The service was speedy, partly because nobody wished to waste time talking of a man who would not be missed and the small crowd were soon gathered outside for the burial.   
James watched the thin lips of the minister move, but he heard nothing of what he chanted over the coffin of his father as it was lowered slowly into the ground. He stood at the graveside, mumbling his own incoherent chants and sprinkling the red powder he had brought that was meant to ward off evil spirits, but more importantly meant to fluster the people who watched him do it. Because everyone was watching him. Including her. She perhaps believed he wouldn't notice, because he was not directly returning her tortured gaze, but James saw everything, especially when it came to her. He always had.  
He spread the waxy powder down his face for effect, hearing small gasps from the people surrounding him, before he finally looked across to where she stood. 

She was not looking. For she was taunting him, he saw that too. He almost smirked at her proposed indifference, for he had the power now, unlike when they were younger.   
She did not know it yet but the tables had turned, he was no longer a young man unable to control his physical need to sin, back then his conscience had been concealed by the hatred for his father, and his lust magnified when faced with her temptation. He was different now. Things had happened to him in Africa which enabled him to shed the skin he was once encased in, and evolve into something else. Something much more powerful, something that could shift between all realms of possibility, all realms of conscious and enable him to use this gift of the mind to his own advantage where she was concerned. 

Ahhh Zilpha: his dear sister. His forbidden lover. His only weakness. 

When he turned back to the coffin watching as the Earth was scattered upon the mahogany wood, he knew she was indeed focusing her gaze on him again, from behind her mesh veil, her husband standing tall behind her. The corners of his mouth turned up slightly in a smirk beneath his moustache, she played such a good game. To an outsider she appeared harsh and cold. But James knew different. A memory of their tangled limbs, damp with perspiration, pink with exertion, flashed across his eyes. Oh how he knew.

It was cold in the graveyard, despite the rain having stopped, but Zilpha's blood felt as though it was on fire. The downy hair on the back of her neck stood on end and gooseflesh erupted over her pale skin like a river, like the river they used to run to. The river where they made love on the banks and drowned in each other away from the prying eyes of society. Like the river forming between her legs at this very moment now that he was back in her life. Fuck, she hated him. Why was he back? Did he not die? Was he now a ghost? Haunting her in apparition form instead of being confined to her nocturnal dreams.   
At that moment as she watched him mumble another language in the form of a chant over the coffin, and use his gloved finger to spread the red ash he used over his face, he turned his head slowly and his eyes finally found hers. She wanted to look away, she didn't want him to have the satisfaction of her obvious curiosity but for all the will she had in the world, she could not.  
The sizzle was dull, but she felt it. And a throbbing ache, a pull, a magnetism. It was in her bloodstream, her chest, and everywhere in between. Like it always was. Her body called for him. Like it always had. And of course it wasn't helped by his focused and intent stare, he was looking at her like he always had, like he wanted to rip her apart with his teeth, like he wanted to kill, or maim, or savagely fuck. Back then she had never been sure which one act he wanted before it happened. But he had never maimed her, and she was still very much alive, especially now he was back. And she found for the first time since he left London, she was glad of the fact.   
Eventually, the intensity of his stare had her dragging her own dark eyes away from his stormy grey ones, back to the ground, to stay grounded, towards the earth. 

James turned to the coffin and mumbled as the spectators began to disperse. 

"Forgive me father, for I have indeed sinned" 

He turned away, his tailcoats whipping in the wind behind him and left the graveyard. He had important business to attend to, and unlike his impatient sister, it could not wait any longer.

At last, Zilpha ceased to feel his eyes on her, and she watched him leave with a longing she had not missed, as she felt her husband pull against her shoulder to lead her home. It was over, but she had the strongest feeling that it had only just begun.


	3. Chapter 3

To clink a glass with his servant again was a bitter tonic. Brace reminded him of his father, and his mind already ensured that Horace was on its very manuscript in all he had come back to this wretched place for. He had seen enough of his face to last ten lifetimes, but he had missed Brace's even if he would never admit to such a thing. 

After the funeral and wake where he had briefly pulled aside a hostile Zilpha to remind her of his love, he had reluctantly returned to the Delaney house. His house. The house where he grew up, the house where his father left him with his hired care so that he could travel all four corners of the globe on his expeditions. While his father carelessly cavorted with Indians, It was the house where he studied for his duties under the East India Company and Sir Stuart Strange. It was where his deep-set hatred of the world materialised, and eventually where it flourished into a decision to leave London behind. It was the house that his father brought her back to. The half sister, the one that changed everything. The one that led to him running away from everything here for what he hoped was forever.  
This house knew all of their secrets. It knew all of their sins. Every floorboard was riddled with them, every dusty corner threatening to reveal them. 

Back then it was grander, cleaner, more suffocatingly counterfeit, but it belonged to him now, and it looked as it should, damp, neglected, haunted.   
James was already aware of his property inheritance, despite not having had the will executed. Horace had left him everything, his last vengeance on the son he hated as much as he loved. He had spoken to him in various dreams from the foreshore that surrounded the back of the property, yet somehow stretched to him all the way in Africa, and he had told him to come back, in fact he had demanded it.  
For he had left him a poisoned chalice, in the form of a piece of land so precarious it risked his life once it was revealed to the masses, a piece of land pivotal in the war that currently waged with the Americans titled: Nootka Sound.  
The crown would want his head if he refused to hand it over, The East India Company would want his balls. And if he managed to avoid ends by their means he was left to face the Americans.  
But James had flirted with death since he was a boy, he had danced with sin and made love to treachery. He came back for this very reason. It was his ultimate tool of revenge and he could not resist it's calling.

As he sat by the flickering flames with his old companion and inherited servant he listened to him recall Horace's last days, about how he would wail for his son on his deathbed, about the lies of his mother's origin and eventual outcast to Bedlam. He listened with a grimace as Brace talked about the gulls and ravens that circled him for the land he owned, things that James already knew well. He listened to his warning about Nootka, about how he should see sense and abandon any plans to dangle it like a carrot in front of his enemies. And he had to smirk. Brace knew better than to think he would heed any kind of sensible advice about revenge.

"Please don't talk to me of sense, Brace, because if it is you, I might believe it" he mocked at him with a twinkle in his eyes.

It was getting late and James had many things to do before he could even attempt to rest his head. He mumbled something barely audible under his breath, before blowing out the oil lamp and leaving Brace alone with his Brandy.

*

The following morning James sat in what had been his father's office. The dawn had chased the dusk and he had not slept but a wink by the time the birds sang scattered tunes outside the window.  
This was very apparent when Brace found him before breakfast and asked him what he had been looking for. The place was trashed, drawers pulled out onto the dusty floorboards, their contents spewed chaotically around his half naked form.   
He noticed that James was altogether more tanned than he had ever been. Although he had a mother who was North American Indian, his father's strong genes ensured he was as pale as his senior had been as a boy. His eyes a pewter mix that had defied both the darkness of his mothers and the crystal blueness of his father's to stand out on their own.  
With his flesh bared, Brace took in the ribboned tattoos on James' thighs, thick bands of dark green ink that were marking him like a wicked brand. It seemed to Brace that Africa had indeed claimed the weathered man before him despite the distance he had now made from its wildness, and he feared the consequences of that fact even if his enemies were blissfully unaware for the moment. Africa was known for its savages, and James was a fool if he didn't think that there had been rumours about his time there and what he had become. The African tribes were cannibals. When people said the name James Delaney, there was a fearfulness involved from his worldly mystery. Guilty by association. A cannibal who feasted on human flesh and practiced dark magic. A savage. But brace had no idea how deep that theory was rooted. 

"What on earth are you looking for?" Brace asked him, as Horace's son continued to spill the contents of his small drawers that were encased inside the larger ones. Nick-Nacks of every kind revealed, but quite clearly not the desired sort as James grunted his disapproval and continued his rummaging. 

"I'm looking for the treaty. The piece of paper that ties me to the cursed land." James replied, his stormy eyes roaming and questioning Brace's face for a clue wether he knew of its whereabouts and would hold back the information.   
Brace was rarely spooked, but James' stare made him feel stripped and naked, like his secrets were being edged out of him, and that would do nobody any good. The things he knew about the Delaney's were enough to ruin the name forever. They must never be revealed. And there was not a chance in hell that he would assist James on the path that led to Nootka Sound. Not if he really did know of the treaty and not if his life depended on it, which it probably did.

"He wouldn't keep it here James. The crown descended many times, they arrested him on many pretences, someone was always on his back, he wouldn't ..."

Brace swallowed and caught his shallow breath, his lip trembling on the memories of his last years. Since Horace had been gone, life was calm again and now, he knew for a fact it was all set to change.

"He wouldn't leave the house in the end, for fear of what he might be accused of. He barricaded us in. He survived on scraps of food and honey beer, and would only go out in order to light his blasted fires on the foreshore in the dead of night. He drove himself insane." Brace recalled bitterly. 

"Hmmmgh" James grunted as he nodded an acknowledgment of his father's altered state of mind, his brow furrowed. 

"And his offices up at the docks? My family had a lease there spanning fifty years, I trust that never left his ownership either?" He replied moments later to another look of panic from the servant who knew too much but said very little.   
This time Brace answered his question quickly, his tone laced with defence.

"They're all locked up James. Have been for years. He wouldn't go up there, there's nothing there." If James knew what they were used for now he might take away the only piece of enjoyment a man could pay for that wasn't beer in this dank City. Brace wholly begrudged him that. 

"Then I will need the key." He replied holding his hand out in expectation. 

After a defiant moment, his servant stormed off to retrieve it, James' grunt of approval the only sound left after his petulant foot stamps.

His immediate and necessary plan was to search the docks for the treaty, re-open the offices and visit Robert Thoyt before the reading of the will.   
His preferred plan was a visit to his sister. But not for the first time, she would have to wait.


End file.
